


Conversations in France

by westolethelight (Llama)



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23388838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/westolethelight
Summary: Peter is in France, and Carl wants him to come home.
Relationships: Carl Barat/Pete Doherty
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58
Collections: Peter and Carl fics to lift our spirits during self-isolation





	1. So I guess we live in France now

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a universe where Peter and Carl have a 20 year tempestuous on and off relationship, with no long-term significant others. Self isolation / quarantine fic.

"Oi, Pigman, answer your damn phone!" 

Carl scowled into the distance, sick of hearing the 'too busy to answer your call' message, sick of leaving voicemails that nobody was listening to. This had been going on for weeks, ever since Peter had stormed off to sulk at the place in France he'd been mostly failing to pay rent on for the last few years. 

He was lucky the owner was a fan.

It would be nice if Peter would answer his fucking calls now though, what with some epidemic, pandemic, whatever-demic looming. Not because Carl was worried about him, or needed to see him or anything. It would just be basic politeness to let him know he wasn't fucking _dead_.

It was possible Carl was overreacting. Just a little.

He had a key to the place, because Peter was bad with keys, and they'd been here together a few times over the years. Fun times. The door wasn't locked though.

Of course.

The place was a _mess_ , just like anywhere Peter stayed long enough; Carl didn't want to see the state of the kitchen right now. He picked his way through the random obstacle course that was the living room towards the bedroom. Bed was always the first place to check for Peter even this early in the afternoon, followed by any other horizontal surfaces in the vicinity. 

The bedroom door was closed, and Carl hesitated for a moment. Did not talking for weeks count as a break up? Either way, he couldn't be sure Peter didn't have someone in there with him. 

Carl turned the doorknob slowly, and gently pushed the door open. 

Peter wasn't alone, but the girl in bed with him just lifted her head and thumped her tail at the sight of Carl. He put his finger to his lips, and she settled back down, tail still twitching happily. Peter's arm was draped across her back, and his face was smooshed into the pillow, his hair all over his eyes.

It was kind of adorable, not that Carl would admit it out loud.

He tiptoed round to the empty side of the bed and lifted the quilt up. He slid in against Peter's bare back, and snuggled up.

"Lose the clothes," Peter said sleepily. He didn't bother to turn over.

Carl snorted. "Lose the dog."

Peter just snuggled her closer. "No way. _She_ loves me."

"Yeah well, she's a dog. It's what they do." Carl poked Peter in the ribs, provoking a very satisfying squeal. As a bonus, Gladys wriggled out of Peter's embrace, jumped off the bed, and trotted out of the door. 

Carl really hoped she wasn't going to raid the kitchen, or any of the dozen overflowing ashtrays lying around out there. She'd managed to survive here with Peter this long though; she would probably be okay.

"You hate me," Peter said gloomily, rubbing his face against the pillow. "You wouldn't let me buy a motorbike. Or keep goats."

Uh huh. "You're banned from driving. And you can't keep a goat in London, it's cruel."

" _Two_ goats." Peter corrected him, trying to flatten his hair down. Carl smoothed down one side for him, but Peter batted his hand away. "You have to get at least two. They get lonely," he said, just a hint of accusation in his tone. It wasn't only Peter's sudden obsession with motorbikes and goats that had prompted the latest fight.

"Still cruel," Carl reminded him, but gently this time.

"We could have worked it out somehow." 

Carl wasn't sure if they were still talking about the goats.

Peter was scrabbling around for clothes, which was a little disappointing until Carl realised he was just looking for his fags. He tossed one to Carl and lit his own. "And--"

He stopped, eyes widening at Carl. "Wait, what the _fuck_ are you doing coming over here when there's a _fucking_ virus out there, you utter--" Unusually for Peter, he seemed to have run out of words.

Carl took a long drag on his cigarette. A long, long drag. "You weren't answering your phone," he said, but it sounded weak even to him.

Peter put an ashtray down in the middle of the bed between them. His forehead was creased in thought as he tapped his cigarette against it, then a knowing look came over his face.

"You missed me!"

Carl scoffed at that. "As if." 

As if he'd have called in a favour to get a private flight out here just to get to Peter. As if the idea of being potentially stuck in different countries with flights about to be cancelled and a deadly virus out to get them was any reason why he might have possibly, just slightly, given in to a bit of panic.

"You did," Peter said confidently. "Maybe you do love me after all, eh?"

Carl shrugged, but he could feel the corners of his mouth tug upwards against his will, and he didn't try to avoid it when Peter leaned across the bed to kiss him softly. When Peter pulled away, probably intending to say something, Carl tugged him back in until their foreheads rested together.

"Come home," he said. "Please."

He didn't say _I need to see you're okay with my own eyes, I need you with me through this_ , but he thought Peter heard it anyway.

"I'll think about it," Peter said, and he sounded like he meant it.

The sun set slowly as Carl picked his way around the house, cleaning dog bowls and rummaging through cupboards and the fridge freezer for food. Peter had a terrible habit of throwing away the outer packaging from food, so it was hard to tell if anything in the fridge was okay without sniffing it.

The cheese was probably safe enough.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the huge darkening windows and unfastened a couple more buttons on his shirt.

"Wine, cheese and chocolate," Peter said when he joined Carl on the sofa. His eyes weren't on the food though, Carl noticed, with some satisfaction. "Don't mind if I do."

"Cupboards are well stocked at home," Carl said casually, sipping his wine. Not bad. He wasn't going to make a thing of Peter's lack of preparation. Except for how he really, really was.

"Oh? Would that be the home I've been kicked out of twice? The home you changed the locks on the second time?"

"That's the one," Carl said, not taking the bait. Peter had deserved it both times, as well he knew. And that had been ages ago. " _Our_ home."

"When it suits you." Peter took a gulp of wine. "Anyway, I've got a man coming tomorrow with everything I need." 

"Yeah?" Carl wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. " _Everything_ you need?"

Peter just smirked at him. God, he was annoying. Maybe he should just let him stay here, the smug fucker, and Carl would go home and live in solitary splendour, with his full freezer and his piano, and his--

"He's about eighty," Peter said.

Like that would stop Peter if he was feeling horny and curious, and Carl could almost see the same thought cross Peter's mind at the same time.

He reached over to where Peter's jeans had a hole in the knee, and poked his finger through it.

"Smooth," Peter said. "That work for you often, does it?"

It was the sort of thing that usually worked just fine on Peter. On a good day Peter's tongue would be down his throat by this point. Maybe he needed a bit more than a flash of chest and their usual silly flirtation to fix things this time.

"Have some chocolate," he said. The room was warm and it was melting a little around the edges, so he picked up a piece and teased Peter's lips with it. He could see Peter wrestle not to give in, but eventually his tongue poked out and licked the chocolate up.

"More?" he said, holding the chocolate just out of reach until Peter nodded. He popped the whole piece in Peter's mouth, and removed the wine glass from his hand.

"You can't take advantage of me until at least the second bottle of wine," Peter complained, but he ate the chocolate anyway. 

"I'm not taking advantage of you," Carl told him, and parked himself firmly in Peter's lap. "I'm seducing you."

"Oh." Peter looked down at his chest as Carl deftly unfastened his shirt. "Can I have some more chocolate while you do that?"

"You're a fuckin' menace," Carl said, but he grabbed a big piece anyway and shoved it into Peter's mouth. 

He held Peter's hands down against his side while he sucked on his neck and collarbone. He looked up triumphantly when Peter moaned loudly, but Peter was just trying to lick a mess of chocolate from around his mouth like a clueless toddler.

Peter's face was the picture of innocence. "It's good chocolate," he said, then laughed when Carl growled at him and made a dive for his lips.

"You have chocolate in your hair," Peter murmured hours later, when Carl woke up naked and sticky with his face buried in Peter's neck. 

"Unffff. Uhlunff." Peter's neck smelt nice, so Carl licked it.

He licked it again in the shower, pushing Peter up against the wall while the spray washed away the sweat and travel grime, the chocolate, the wine and the rest. Peter's arms wrapped around him while he mouthed at Peter's neck, one leg squeezed between Peter's thighs. He wanted to bite down, leave teethmarks in all his favourite places, as if that would make Peter do what he wanted, come home and be with him, safe.

Instead he kissed him, warm and sweet, and that, that made Peter pliant in his hands, made Peter's eyes soften in the way Carl had been waiting for. Made Peter willing to be led, wordlessly, to the huge bed, and laid down in soft white sheets so that Carl could look at him, really look.

He buried his hands in Peter's damp hair, leaned in, and Peter opened up for him, mouth soft and greedy, devouring any doubts Carl might have had. Peter, this Peter, would listen to reason, would not make Carl go home alone. He could stop worrying, stop thinking, just let Peter's body take him in as eagerly as his mouth did, let their bodies seal the pact the way they always did; one mind, one body, one soul, Peter liked to say, and Carl couldn't argue with that. 

Peter came with a soft sigh, Carl deep inside him, and that was enough to push Carl over the edge.

"Now I feel seduced," Peter said, when Carl was tucked again into his neck. He stroked Carl's hair, soothing him while his breathing slowed. 

"That mean you're going to come home?" Carl asked. He was pretty sure they'd made up, and Peter had stopped fighting him, stopped sulking. He hadn't imagined it, Peter had _surrendered_. It hadn't just been about the sex. It never was with them.

But Peter didn't say anything. 

"Peter." Carl's body tensed up, but Peter just squeezed him more tightly and shushed him.

"Why London?" he said, which didn't make any sense. "We could just stay here."

"But—" _But it's_ London _,_ Carl wanted to say. _It's where we live, where we belong._

"You're here already," Peter continued, his hand rubbing gently up and down Carl's back. "London is busy, it's harder to avoid people, everything will be frantic."

"Maybe," Carl said. "It's still home."

"And it'll still be there when all this is over." Peter kissed the top of Carl's head. "There's hardly anyone around for miles, I've got supplies arranged, we've got recording equipment, guitars, I think there's even a drumkit in the garage still."

Carl was silent for a moment. Maybe it could work. "It's not how I thought this was going to go," he sighed. "But yeah. Okay."

"Thank god." Peter let out a long breath. "I was a bit worried about who would feed the--" 

He stopped, and Carl had a bad feeling about this.

"Peter?"

"Yes, love?" Peter sounded half-wary, half-resigned. Yeah, he knew he'd been rumbled.

"Exactly how many goats did you get?"


	2. Frida the free spirit, and other visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's a chicken. Sitting on the end of the bed," Carl said, enunciating it slowly. "I _think_ it might be about to lay an egg."

"Peter."

Carl shoved at Peter's shoulder for the third time, and finally he stirred enough to half-sit up in the bed. The early sunlight that slanted across the floor and sheets glinted his hair gold and silver where it fell over his face. 

Maybe it had been too long since Carl had seen Peter in sunlight. It was almost enough to distract him.

"What's up?" Peter rubbed at his eyes, dislodging his hair and disrupting the vision.

"There's a chicken. Sitting on the end of the bed," Carl said, enunciating it slowly. It had a funny look in its eye and a vicious beak on it, he didn't want to startle it more than he had to. Its feathers were all ruffled up and it was doing a weird sort of up and down dance. "I _think_ it might be about to lay an egg."

"Oh, is that all?" Peter gave the chicken a quick glance, then flopped back down onto his pillow and nuzzled it with a pleased hum. "Don't make a drama out of it, it's just a chicken."

Just a--

"On the _bed_ , Peter. Where since you've somehow conned me into staying, we will be sleeping for the foreseeable future." Carl couldn't-- well, no, he _could_ believe Peter was being like this, but it didn't mean he had to like it. "I wasn't planning on sharing it with a fucking chicken!"

"Frida's a free spirit, Carl," Peter said. "Don't shackle her to your expectations of conventional chicken behaviour."

The chicken gave a funny wiggle, then hopped off the bed leaving something distinctly egg-like behind.

What the fuck. Carl gave up, and lay back down to get another couple of hours sleep. He didn't know what time it was, but it was definitely too bloody early in the morning for this.

When Carl woke up again, there was a mug by the bedside. Tea? 

He took a sip; it was still hot. And it was _good_ tea.

It revived him enough to get up and pull his jeans on, stop off at the bathroom for a pee (still with mug in hand), and follow his nose to the kitchen, where Peter was also shirtless, whistling merrily and... frying eggs?

"Fresh eggs!" Peter said, cheerfully waving a spatula at him. "Don't forget to thank Frida and Virginia later."

Carl blinked. This was new.

"Hi," he said, looking pointedly around the kitchen. "I don't know if you can help me, but I seem to have lost someone."

"Ha ha." 

"About your height, your build, burns toast--"

With uncanny timing, four perfectly golden slices of toast popped out of the toaster.

"—thinks frying pans are for playing tennis over the sofa, answers to the name of Peter, Pigman, Jiggler--"

"Hilarious." Peter buttered the last slice of toast and slid the eggs on top. "You want breakfast or not, funny man?"

There was no amount of Peter weirdness that was going to keep Carl from that breakfast. They ate standing up in the light, airy kitchen, eggs sandwiched between slices of toast because Peter didn't believe in cutlery at breakfast time, and apparently they were doing things Peter's way this morning.

It wasn't going to last, but the breakfast was good enough that Carl was willing to let it slide for now.

"So," Carl said, when the plates had been dumped in the sink. "You cook now?"

"Ran out of microwave meals," Peter admitted, grinning. There was egg yolk on the side of his mouth. "So I thought I'd give it a go. We can experiment more when Paul brings the fresh supplies over. I'm sure the internet has some tips."

Carl shook his head. "This is so weird."

"It's been nice," Peter said. "I haven't eaten this well for... ever, probably."

"You look good on it," Carl said, because he really did. He stepped closer and wiped the egg yolk off Peter's mouth. Then he pressed his lips against Peter's, because he was right there and it would be rude not to.

Peter pulled him in immediately, hooking a possessive arm around Carl's neck and fumbling for the button on Carl's jeans. He had his hand in there in record time, and Carl didn't know which was more of a turn-on: the big hand sneaking into his jeans or the one keeping their faces locked tightly together, fingers pushing into his hair.

"Maybe we should-- go back to bed--" Carl gasped out when Peter allowed him to take a breath. But he remembered the time Peter had blown him against this very counter a couple of years ago, and he thought from the glint in Peter's eye that he remembered it too. 

Fuck it. He helped Peter shove his jeans down, and pulled his face closer, kissing him hungrily. Peter loved kissing, but there was very little he liked more than getting his mouth around Carl's cock, and they both knew it. 

Peter had many talents, but Carl personally believed this was his greatest achievement. If there was a Nobel Prize for sucking cock, an Oscar for fellatio, Peter would walk it. When they were apart, whatever the reason, this was what Carl fantasised about, what would get him off every time.

Peter slid his hands around Carl's hips, pulled him in closer. He didn't bother with much build up, just went straight for fast and dirty, just what Carl needed, and fuck, he was not going to last long. Peter sucked hard, gripping him tightly, and Carl waited for it, waited for the trick he knew Peter would pull, and--

\--there it was, just the tiniest scrape of teeth, and Carl bucked his hips, and he was coming in Peter's mouth--

There was a loud tap on the window, and two faces pressed against the glass.

\--on Peter's chin, down his chest, on Peter's trousers--

And that was how Carl first met the neighbours.

"Oh, it's Paul!" Peter exclaimed. He waved at the faces peering in, while Carl scrambled to get himself back into his jeans without doing himself a serious injury. "Hang on a minute!"

"You can't answer the door," Carl reminded him. "The virus, remember?"

"We already made arrangements," Peter said. 

Carl followed him to the living room, and to the enormous windows with the sliding door. There was already quite a pile of boxes and bags on the other side, and it looked like the truck parked up nearby had plenty more. 

"How much did you order?" Carl asked him. If this was all fresh food, they were going to be wasting a lot, unless--

"Enough to fill the freezers up," Peter said. "Thought I might have to last a while. But Paul will bring more if we need it."

Paul was nowhere near eighty, Carl couldn't help but notice. Sixty if he was a day, wiry with well-muscled arms and physically very much Peter's type, if Peter could even be said to have a type.

"And the other one," Carl said, watching as the much younger man with Paul carried another couple of heavy-looking boxes over with apparently very little effort. "Who is he, exactly?"

"Oh," Peter said, looking a bit shifty. "That's Paul's son, Lucien."

"Who you completely failed to mention yesterday?"

"I didn't know he'd be coming with him!" Peter protested.

Maybe not for certain, but with that amount of supplies? Carl wasn't buying it. And he wouldn't put it past Peter to have ordered enough to feed an army just to make sure a very, _very_ attractive young man would show up on his doorstep. 

He'd done more for less.

"But I might have hoped he would..." Peter winked at him, and Carl snorted a laugh.

They watched Lucien carry the rest of the boxes over, and he gave them a wave and-- possibly, just possibly, a sly smile before he joined his father in the truck and departed.

"You think...?" Carl said, looking at Peter, who looked equally unsure.

"No." Peter scratched his head. "Well, maybe?"

"Not like we could do anything about it anyway."

Peter sighed. "Yeah."

This social distancing thing definitely had some downsides.

As well as the chickens, it turned out Peter had acquired _four_ goats, two of them young and incredibly energetic. Carl felt tired just watching them.

"They're a family, Carl," Peter said, as if that was a good reason for it. "Look how happy they are! I couldn't split them up. Their owner couldn't keep them any more, and Paul helped me reconstruct their shed and pen."

Carl wasn't an expert, but he wasn't convinced this was the usual way things were done. However, done it was, and they seemed to be doing okay for the moment. 

The two young goats ran around each other, then jumped up and banged their heads together. It reminded Carl of something, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Do you know anything about looking after goats?" he asked finally. 

"Of course," Peter said, with a look that said Carl was being very silly. 

He started back to the house, striding away with his long legs, fast enough that Carl refused to scramble after him like an idiot. 

"I bought a book," he shouted back over his shoulder.

"But have you _read_ it?" Carl grumbled under his breath, and resolved to invest a few hours of his afternoon to googling goat-keeping.

Fuck his life.

Even if Peter had been getting used to spending time outdoors in the fresh air lately, Carl really hadn't. He yawned his way through some film Peter put on in the living room that night, wishing they'd taken it to bed but too lazy to make the move.

He stripped them both down slowly, pulling a blanket over them on the sofa just because it was weird with the windows uncovered, and lay in Peter's arms trading lazy kisses while the dogs snored gently around the room.

"We could just sleep here," Carl said. 

"Have to take the dogs out." Peter sighed. "When they wake up."

Carl groaned, and with good reason because Gladys barked then, and all three of them began sniffing at the door to the garden.

"Probably a cat," Peter said. Then he pressed his mouth up close to Carl's ear, and added, "Or maybe it's Lucien, come back to get another eyeful of you."

"Yeah, right." It had been mildly embarrassing getting caught with his trousers down like that, but it was still nice to contemplate an attractive man wanting to look at him some more.

"'Course, I saw him first..."

Carl jabbed his elbow sharply into Peter's ribs for that one.

"But I can share! Fucking hell, that hurt."

"It was meant to." But Carl had hold of Peter's hand now, guiding it down to where his cock was starting to take an interest.

"He won't be getting much of a look with this blanket over you," Peter said slyly, giving him a slow, firm stroke. "Get rid of it."

Carl pushed it off onto the floor, feeling exposed in front of the wall of windows, even though he knew Peter was just playing a game, telling a story to get Carl going.

Peter was too good at that, and knew how to press all of Carl's buttons.

"Imagine the view he has," Peter continued. "My hands all over you. Do you think he's picturing himself in my place? Or do you think he's just enjoying the show?"

Carl groaned, writhing on top of Peter to get his hands and the pressure of them just right, just where he needed it. He watched Peter's hand smooth its way up and down his cock, firm pressure on the shaft, not teasing like his words, but designed to get him off at just the right pace.

"Or maybe you'd prefer his hands on you," Peter said. "What do you think they'd be like?"

Smaller, Carl thought. Which would be different, but he _liked_ Peter's hands. It used to freak him out, it made him feel small when Peter's big hands enveloped his, it was too much. But Peter's hands on his body? Carl wouldn't swap those for anything.

He was gasping now, words were hard to find. He put his hands over Peter's instead, trying to convey it that way. He felt Peter chuckle and press a kiss to his cheek as Carl came all over them, so he thought he'd probably succeeded.

They herded up the dogs for a last trip outside before bed.

Peter opened the back door, wrapped in the sofa blanket, and the dogs bounded outside, jumping over something that was sat outside the door. It was a large box, full of... eggs, butter, and cheese. The note on top explained that the writer had forgotten to drop this box off earlier, and apologised for the late night delivery.

It was signed 'L'.

Peter passed the note to Carl with a bemused smirk and a rough translation. "I didn't really think--"

"Maybe he didn't see anything," Carl said, not sure if he wanted that to be true or not.

Peter lugged the box in and whistled for the dogs. "Come on, let's get to bed. You owe me at least two orgasms now, time to start paying up."

"Yeah, yeah." Carl dropped the note on top of the box. "Not that you're counting or anything."

"No, no." Peter smirked at him as he locked the door. "But if you make it three, I might let you call me Lucien."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, not planning on a threesome! At least, not one that breaks social distancing rules ;-) But they can have some fun thinking about it.


End file.
